


Against the hugging

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, fluffiest fluff, fluffy fluff, whouffaldi, wibble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helpfully @randomthunk and @owlsinhoodies on tumblr are inspirational people - go - thank them (well if you liked the story - if not, tell me off repeatedly)</p>
<p>So, this is after Episode 2, Clara is out of the Dalek, the Doctor is ever so slightly freaked and does not want to go anywhere, so they don't, they just have a very pleasant time in the library.</p>
<p>A teensy bit of angst, its never really 12 without the angst. </p>
<p>Smidgen of implied smut....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the hugging

Clara running, the merciless repetition of “EXT..ERMI…NATE.”

The flash of blue. 

Clara gone. 

Over and over and over and over and over. 

All right, strictly, not without mercy, but still.

Clara bounced into the TARDIS the next day as if nothing had happened. He wasn’t sure he could do this.

“Come on, where are we going?”

Her eyes, big and bright and excited. What had he done to her? She should be fearful and worried and upset, angry even. OK, she hadn’t died. But for him, she had, and this was the third time. The others echoes – but the pain was no less real. He had watched Clara die three times, Daleks twice, the fall from the cloud. He tried not think about when Clara could have burned. 

It was all too much.

Santa and Christmas, so nearly dead and then old and then a second chance. How much was he responsible, how much of the burden should he bear?

All of it. Always. His Clara.

So vibrant, so full of life, so brilliant and gone. 

He wasn’t sure he could take it anymore. He had lost too much and too often – he couldn’t lose Clara again. Not Clara. He had made too many bargains with unseen deities, with his own conscience, all to no avail – but he would not lose Clara.

No, that was it, they were not going anywhere, they were staying right where they were.

Now, how to convince Clara?

Don’t mention not gallivanting, don’t tell her he is protecting her, don’t tell her it’s too risky (even though it is, too him). She was remarkably stubborn and really rather proud at times. Was she truly heedless of the risks he exposed her to? Did she think all the times she had survived, all the times she hadn’t died, granted her immortality? He knew she couldn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t remember everything, and for that, he was thankful, but he did.

Right, somehow, no running, no chasing, no monsters.

He would enlist the TARDIS, the TARDIS liked Clara. Ah, maybe not. Really, the old girl could be fussy, picky, pedantic. She was listening to him – she was tutting. He should shut up, really.

“Go on, help me, you know you want to?” 

With that, the TARDIS pretty much powered down. Well, not exactly what he had in mind, but it would work – they couldn’t go anywhere. Truly – he didn’t have to lie.

“We can’t go anywhere, there’s a problem, it’ll take a bit to fix. Er…” (He never said “er…” focus, try harder, how difficult could this be, days without danger.)

“We could hang out, catch up on those films you keep telling me you want to watch, we could do that thing with the arms….” 

Oh, shut up brain, that is not helping, no, not at all, not remotely. How had he said that out loud? yes say nothing, don’t elaborate.

He had stopped talking mid-sentence and Clara was looking at him. Arms folded, not quite cross, the barest suggestion of foot tapping, no over-inflated eyes. He wasn’t in too much trouble yet. Yes, he was, maybe monsters would be easier.

She tried to suggest making snow angels. He hadn’t called her a pudding brain that often, he really wasn’t that patronising – she really was rather clever for a human. Maybe don’t tell her that again either. But that was a terrible idea. That didn’t sound safe or like fun at all. Snow angels, obviously dangerous and the not blinking really was tedious.

He tried to sound accommodating, apparently that made Clara more suspicious. Really, was he so un-amenable?

Could he say he was tired? Could he say he needed to rest? Probably not after the number of times he had mentioned superior Time Lord physiology.

Tell her he needed a day off, a day off would be fun. NO. That would never convince her.

“Come on we can go to the library, watch the films on the big screen – have popcorn? Snacks? Really, whatever you would like, but we are not going anywhere.”  
He hastily amended that.

“We can’t go anywhere.”

“You watch something soppy and sentimental and romantic whilst I begin the repairs and then I’ll join you for something more sensible.”

She glared. She suggested they watch “Alien”, he reminded her that he considered that offensive. Wait, did she remember that, the dream from Christmas, had they shared every element of it? Was it as real for her as for him, or did she just think about Santa? Don’t make her think of Danny. He would be thankful if she didn’t think of the horror of the Dream Crabs again.

“The TARDIS needs a day off, a day off will be fun. What’s that thing you keep telling me about? “Duvet “Days”. It can be one of those. Your choice of what to watch and what to eat.”

He presumed “Duvets” weren’t monsters.

 

Clara looked thoughtful, her expression softening slightly.

“That could work. You have to wear pyjamas though.”

He just stopped himself from a) rolling his eyes, b) agreeing too readily. He had diffused some of her suspicions, it was best not to arouse fresh ones.

“Right, pyjamas, right….”

“You do have pyjamas?”

“Well I suppose I must have, somewhere. You go and change, or get ready or whatever, and I’ll join you in the library. I’ll bring food and drinks.”

Don’t sound too eager, don’t sound too pleased, don’t do that bouncing up and down on your toes that makes Clara tell you, you look like a grey Tigger. Don’t think about what she wore on the Orient Express. Don’t think about shimmering, slippery, oyster coloured satin clinging to an accentuating each of her curves.

Clara would have told him about making sure there was nothing sensible to eat, but she was talking to the Doctor, a man who thought that fish fingers and custard was a nutritionally balanced and thoroughly acceptable meal. Clara said nothing – she smiled and headed back out the TARDIS into her home.

After he’d settled her, he retreated to the console room, he sat under the controls, his back resting against her. His knees hugged up against his chest, his coat wrapped tightly round him and he couldn’t help it, all his feelings of sorrow and loss overwhelmed him, and he sobbed.

Pulling himself together. He stood up.

He went in search of pyjamas. He found some. Something idiotic with ponies and rainbows on, whichever former self thought they were a good idea….a soft giggle in his head, ah, the TARDIS’ idea of a joke. So funny. Ha, ha, ha.

He brought a tray laden with food and drinks, set it on the table in front of the sofa. 

Clara was asleep.

Not the silk, she was wearing something cozy and soft and plaid.

Smiling, he took the old, soft, worn quilt from behind her and started to wrap her in it. It was frayed at the edges, he couldn’t remember why he would never replace it.

Clara woke up. He apologised. She smiled at him, then giggled. Her hand moved to his thigh and touched him. His brain short circuited, and he just stopped himself from jumping backwards and falling over the table.

“My Little Pony! Oh, I loved those when I was a girl!” 

She wasn’t going to tell the Doctor she still loved them, he teased her enough, well maybe not quite enough, and not as much as he used to.

The Doctor looked round. 

“What pony? Where?”

She touched his leg again, he glanced at her hand.

“Your pjs, the pattern is “My Little Pony”, they are so adorable.”

He could cope with adorable, if he could stop thinking about how warm her hand was. He realised it was gone, but he felt the imprint still glowing.

“Give me your jumper, I’m cold, and you have far too many layers.”

The Doctor had conceded to pyjama bottoms, but retained his jumper, t-shirt, undershirt. He had removed his coat. Really, Clara’s expectations were quite unrealistic. 

He handed his jumper over without protest, he wondered if he would ever get it back. He had noticed a surprising quantity of clothing making its way into her flat, he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. 

He watched her pull the jumper over her head, not thinking about the holes, disregarding the top she was wearing underneath. Her hair was a cloud of static, his fingers itched to touch, to straighten, to caress. He held his hands firmly by his side. He was oblivious to the similar disruption of his own hair.

When he stretched, he didn’t notice her gaze as his t-shirt rode up and his pjs slipped lower, the tip of her tongue between her lips as her eyes followed the line of silver hair.

He sat down on the sofa, a cautious distance from Clara, and handed her a mug of hot chocolate. Extra chocolate, topped with whipped cream, grated chocolate and a flake.

He watched her wrap her hands around the mug. How could she still be cold? He had lit the fire earlier (strictly, a virtual fire, but still), she should be warm. He watched the fire light flicker over her skin and thought she had never been more beautiful, more precious. Both his hearts hurt. Her legs were tucked under her, his jumper pulled down over her knees and all he could see of her feet were fluffy socks. He stored the picture in his mind.

He picked up his own mug and took a sip. Cream covered his nose. Clara leaned forward and licked his nose. His brain stopped, looping the sensation. He clenched and unclenched his toes. He didn’t think where else he could put cream. He may have squeaked ever so slightly, and Clara may have laughed.

He hesitated to ask what they were about to watch, if he could freeze time in this moment, he would.

He took the quilt up again and wrapped them both in it. Disregarding his normal inclinations he managed to pull Clara against him, wrapping her in the quilt and in his arms. Her head resting gently against his chest, the warmth of her breath, the sweetness of her fragrance. He was glad time hadn’t stopped. 

Her hand and was sliding across his chest, she was snuggling into him, making soft, contented noises, moving her hands up around his neck and to his hair.

“I'm sorry.I don’t want to be your best friend.”

What had possessed him to say that out loud? Idiot.

She sprang back, trying to sit upright again, looking so hurt.

NO, NO, NO, NO! Idiot.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.The Daleks asked me what I wanted, I said you – you’re all I want. Not a best friend, so much more than that.”

Holding her hands again, looking at her so openly, so hopefully, the sense of his touch spreading from her fingertips, through her hands, her arms, flowing through her.

A warmth, an expectation, a question.

This was her friend that she messed around with, hung out with, travelled with.

More?

“Marry me?”

He’d said it out loud.

“Don’t be silly.”

Never the answer you wanted, he couldn’t believe the pain that went through him.

“You wont’ hold my hand.” 

He looked at their hands, still clasped.

“Ok, you almost never hold my hand. You hate hugging...mostly.” 

She was still wrapped in his arms.

“You’ve never kissed me.”

Should he tell her if he kissed her, he wouldn’t stop. He thought about almost nothing else, when he seemed distracted he was. He thought of kissing every inch of her, of tasting her, of using his mouth and fingers to make her come apart, making her scream.

Gods! Was he still speaking out loud?

“Scream in a good way, a very good way, probably, assuredly. You’d definitely like it, enjoy it, I have been lead to believe....”

He was incapable of shutting up and he was certain he couldn’t ever turn a deeper shade of red, he was mostly certain his hair was blushing.

Clara saved him. 

She kissed him.

He stopped talking.

He was quite happy, no, indescribably happy, ecstatic, delirious, to be, for once, entirely practical and thoroughly hands on.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I am still a comment whore, so if you liked this, tell me
> 
> If you hated this - tell me.
> 
> Any faults, mistakes are entirely mine - @randomthunk and @owlsinhoodies are just too wonderful
> 
> And if you really loved this, please share.


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